


the horror of being known (see me fairly)

by ryter



Series: SBI characterization fics to cry about [3]
Category: Minecraft (Video Game), Video Blogging RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Blind Character, Blind!Technoblade, Brother Feels, Brotherly Affection, Brotherly Angst, Brotherly Bonding, Brothers, Disabled Character, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Exile, Family Dynamics, Father-Son Relationship, Gen, Ghost Wilbur Soot, Grief/Mourning, Post-Manberg-Pogtopia War on Dream Team SMP (Video Blogging RPF), Sleepy Bois Inc as Family, Technoblade-centric (Video Blogging RPF), Twins Wilbur Soot & Technoblade, War, Wilbur Soot and Technoblade and TommyInnit are Siblings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-31
Updated: 2020-12-31
Packaged: 2021-03-10 17:00:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,586
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28450560
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ryter/pseuds/ryter
Summary: Technoblade knows how to find the people he cares about without sight: Wilbur steps heel-first, Tommy's voice is louder than explosions, and Phil never crosses anyone's path without resting his palm on a shoulder or back. But when Techno releases Withers into a city his brothers loved too much, he has to relearn how to recognize his family.Or: Technoblade sees things a little differently, both literally and metaphorically. It doesn't change things much.
Relationships: Technoblade & Phil Watson (Video Blogging RPF), Technoblade & TommyInnit (Video Blogging RPF), Wilbur Soot & Technoblade, Wilbur Soot & Technoblade & TommyInnit
Series: SBI characterization fics to cry about [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2084016
Comments: 52
Kudos: 652
Collections: Random





	the horror of being known (see me fairly)

**Author's Note:**

> This work focuses on the characters within the Dream SMP roleplay and not the content creators themselves.

There is a chest hidden in Technoblade’s house. Layered behind walls of wood and stone, hidden buttons and an air of superiority, no one knows it exists.

There’s nothing of value inside. An old black blindfold, worn and frayed at the edges. A stack of blue dye. A spinach plant, dried whole in a glass potion bottle. A dented iron helmet, enchantments flickering in and out of existence. A mug of tea. Nothing worth protecting.

He does so anyway.

#

When Techno releases the Withers into what’s left of L’Manburg, he makes sure to scream out the final words of his speech as loud as he can, laughing through the hot flush on his cheeks and ears. He’s burning up inside, acid clawing up his throat, fingers shaking where they clutch the handle of his rocket launcher from sheer fucking mortification.

He hasn’t misjudged distance like that since he was a teenager. The infamous Blade, misplacing a skull. The part of him not yet overcome by bloodlust sounds suspiciously like Phil. _All it takes is a moment’s inattention!_ The rockets go off and clear the path directly in front of him, bright light blinding, savage grin tearing across his face—

His hair blows left. He twists on his heel, _down,_ letting the arrow shoot harmlessly over his head. The next rocket is aimed left and explodes in another shower of light—

The smell of enchanted iron reaches him from behind, sickly-sweet and burnt metal singing, and he raises his shield—

The sword bounces off harmlessly and he shoots into the chest plate, hearing it crack in time with racing footsteps—

He pushes himself forward, feints right. _Use your surroundings!_ The ground is unsteady under his bare feet—

The ravine is deep and carved from stone, but he rolls to take the fall damage, pressing his back against the wall, shooting into the sky—

Above him, he can hear Tommy screaming.

#

It goes like this—Phil gives his children a cottage in the woods, fields reaching down to a river, trees surrounding them as far as they can see. Phil gives Wilbur as many instruments as he can find in the marketplace, gives Tommy a friend to splash and screech and play with.

He gives Techno a room where he can sleep with his back to the corner, a bed he can pile high with blankets and nights he should be able sleep through. He checks on his brothers for Techno, creeping over floorboards in the dead of the night, lingering on Wilbur’s breathing and Tommy’s heartbeat.

Techno still wakes up at all hours, muscles tense, ready to run at any moment, dreaming in vivid technicolour.

The smells stick with him the hardest. Blobs of colour as well, red and silver and dirt-brown floors, but the smell of iron and blood and sweat is engraved into his skin. The screams are trapped in his ears, even when he pulls them down and covers his face and presses his body into the walls. On those nights, he’s still in the pit, and Wilbur’s bruised face is peering out behind bars and Tommy’s eyes are shut tightly—

Sometimes Phil will knock at the door, always three light taps, and get no answer. On these mornings, he has to slip into the room and close the door behind him, pulling the blinds over the windows. He’ll rest against the bed, not on it—set high enough for a tiny body to wiggle underneath it. His hand will rest just underneath the bed, palm up and empty.

Phil found Techno covered in blood, snarling words no child should know, two brothers locked in a cage behind him, and thought _If I don’t save you now, who will?_ He thinks the same in these moments, in a dark and quiet room with a boy who never got to be anything but a killer. _Who will wait for you? Will anyone?_

Phil will wait in silence until Techno grips his hand, claws and fingers entwining in something purer than trust.

#

“Peer pressure,” he says, when Tommy asks _how could you, my best friend, you killed Tubbo._ “Stays in the pit,” he says when Wilbur tosses them both in, eyes shining and gleeful, voice crowing _I forgive him._ “I don’t care,” he says when they bicker, and acts as if he remembers what his brother’s faces look like.

The truth is, Techno can’t see beyond his weapon anymore. He can calculate—water falls at a certain speed, so he knows where to aim his trident. Sound carries depending on the wind, so he knows where to point his crossbow. Rockets take everything and anything with it, so he knows he doesn’t have to be precise.

It’s easy to attack blindly. It’s easier to press the trigger when you can’t see the target.

#

It goes with a cottage, three brothers, and quiet corners. It starts a bit later.

“You shouldn’t have fought them.”

“Running away would have made it worse,” Techno argues back, even through the bloody lip and black eye. His teeth hurt. His claws are still tacky.

“And running away would have gotten you to me,” Phil counters, bandages in hand. “I could have taken care of them.”

“I did it myself!”

“You shouldn’t have had to!”

Techno flinches back at that, Phil’s voice rising and sharpening. He knows it’s out of concern. He knows Phil hates the way Techno comes home bloody, clothes stained in a way no river water can clean, Tommy and Wilbur shuffling behind him with downcast eyes. He knows all that. He still flinches.

“Techno—" Phil’s face twists. Grief, maybe. “I just don’t want you hurt. You’re not even ten. You shouldn’t have to fight four fully-grown men off because—because of anything! There’s no reason!”

“They wanted to hit Tommy,” Techno says, and the world is very big around him, no walls to corner him off. Wilbur doesn’t have bruises anymore, but Tommy still closes his eyes whenever he’s stressed or scared, and no amount of fighting can ever change the fact that Techno didn’t protect his brothers well enough. “I—they would have caught us.”

Phil takes a deep breath, sucking it in like a poison. “What did they look like?”

“Tall.” He wrinkles his nose. “Dark hair? They all wore the same uniforms, I think.”

“Tommy says you got close enough to take a good look,” Phil says, and his voice is careful as much as it is probing. “Didn’t you see their faces?”

Techno lets himself shrug, shoulder screaming at him. He probably could have picked out a few features, if he had stayed still and gotten closer, but the voices had risen and pushed him forward with outstretched claws before he could remember to stay calm. “They smelled of flint,” he offers instead. “And—pigskin.”

Phil lets out a low hiss at that. “Are you sure they were after Tommy?”

“Yes.” He doesn’t explain, doesn’t want to tell anyone how Techno had to creep through the undergrowth and listen closely to pick words out. _Blond. Annoying. Expensive. Scream._ “And I’d do it again.”

“You’re never going to stop, are you?” Phil’s voice is resigned, raw with an edge Techno can’t name yet. “I thought I got you out of that place in time, but—I guess I didn’t.”

“I’m sorry,” Techno whispers, and the ugly pit inside of him threatens to grow, promises to swallow up his world and his mind like a black sun and leave nothing but the bloodthirst behind. Leave his body ready to fight, to claw and kick and bite without any of his movements registering behind the mantra of _alive, alive, stay alive._

He’s always had brothers to keep safe. He’s never had a father to disappoint before.

“Tomorrow,” Phil says. He picks the bandages back up. “We start—we start training. Tomorrow at dawn.”

#

He’s surrounded by iron bars, waiting for his sham of a trial to start among the chaos, when icy wind blows down from his right.

“Hello, Ghostbur,” he murmurs, ears straining for the sound of footsteps. None come.

_I’ve named him Friend!_

Techno turns to his dead brother. From here, all he can see is a faded yellow jumper. Friend is nothing but a blur through the iron bars. “That’s fantastic, Ghostbur,” he says dryly, heart pounding against his chest. “I’m about to die, Ghostbur.”

 _Do you want to die?_ Blue drips out from Ghostbur’s fingertips with a light patter, rhythmic against the stone.

“Of course not,” is the automatic response. A lifetime ago, their places had been reversed—Wilbur looking down from a cage, Techno looking up from the battleground. But as Ghostbur floats closer to Techno’s cage, he can’t help but think.

Ghostbur has a cut under his ribs that Techno can’t smell, can’t hear, can only see when the ghost is close enough to touch. There are no footsteps to signal movement, just a light, echoing voice spilling bittersweet nativity. And yet, there’s always a half-smile on the pale, blank face.

 _I like you a lot!_ Ghostbur floats higher, hair falling on Techno’s face. _Do you know why I like you a lot?_

“My charming humour?” He pushes against the iron, experimentally. He could probably jump the walls if he had the right momentum—something to spring off of, preferably a flat metal. He can use this. 

_You don’t treat me like Wilbur._ Ghostbur’s hands are as cold as ice as they rest on Techno’s shoulders, phasing through the bars as if they don’t exist. _You treat me like me! Thank you!_

Across from them, Fundy watches his father and uncle with eyes of hard flint. Teeth grind together solidly in the night, tail flicking as the anvil starts to drop. Techno never tried particularly hard to reach his nephew, but seeing Fundy like this is enough to give Techno a rare moment of regret.

(He’s only ever asked Wilbur what he remembered once. Wilbur, not Ghostbur—one of the silent nights they spent in Pogtopia together, farming potatoes. _What do you remember before Phil found us,_ he asked, and Wilbur stared blankly back.

 _Helplessness,_ he finally responded, and kept farming.

The next day, Wilbur demanded to see all the chests in Pogtopia, scrabbling for knowledge, for control, and Techno understood his twin a little bit more.)

In the few moments Techno has to equip his totem, before the anvil falls, he watches the colours of his dead brother fade away and wonders— _do I want to?_

#

He doesn’t get the chance to say he’s ready before he gets charged, a bright wave of light stabbing into his head as TNT is detonated in front of him. He jumps back in time, but there’s still a layer of soot and burnt hair on his chest.

“All it takes is a moment’s inattention,” the hiss comes from the left. “Focus!”

He feints right, digging hoofed feet into the loose soil to lunge forward, his sword in front of him, clearing the path—

The handle is torn out of his hands. The sword tip has been driven into a just-placed wooden log, metal quivering.

“Use your surroundings!” The shout comes directly behind him this time. Techno turns, digging his feet into the soil, more dust that dirt, and kicks up directly. Pebbles ping off iron armour—

A gust of wind blows the dust back into his face. He stifles the urge to cough, crouching down low into the dirt, sword handle still stuck next to him—

He throws himself to the right, grinning at the screech of iron. A missed hit. His leg kicks out again, hitting his opponent in the ankle, using the same force to roll forward and cushion the blow—

He pops up, but there’s nothing to hide against, his back is exposed—

The tip of a sword flashes underneath his throat. He freezes, arms out to the side but no way to push back.

“Dead,” the voice pronounces quietly, and the sword vanishes. Techno is still frozen, eyes focused on the ground. “You’re getting quicker.”

“And you’re still killing me!” he snarls out, glaring up. This close up, he can see how lined Phil’s face is, gaunt and worn. A strip of black fabric covers his eyes, but the dark shadows underneath still peek out.

Phil has never explicitly said he knows about Techno’s sight. It’s not something Techno would stick around to talk about, either, but the first time Phil brought Techno out for a sparring match, he also brought the blindfold. _This is what you’re capable of._

Somebody else might have found it insulting. Techno takes it as a personal standard.

“Better me than anyone else,” his father responds, but his hands shake as he puts the sword away. “You’ll learn.”

Techno scowls, looking down. “Do I have to go over the fight now?”

“Yes.” Phil’s voice leaves no room for complaint.

“I left my back open,” he grumbles. “Shouldn’t have done that roll on an empty field.”

“And?”

Techno throws his hands up. “I wasn’t omnipresent enough to figure out the wind was going to blow in my face! How did _you_ know?”

Phil’s hand raises up, tugging at one of the pale locks around his shoulders. “You should grow your hair out, too. You would have felt the block being placed down, even though you should have heard it.”

Techno runs a hand over his own head, hair cut right down to the scalp. The bristles prick against his palm. He’s never considered it, hair something he thought of as brushing against his face and getting tangled in his teeth. Wilbur complained about it often enough, in badly-hidden delight as he pushes it out of his eyes.

“Once more?” he says instead, already digging into the dirt.

When Phil darts forward this time, Techno feints left.

#

Techno uses the totem. Techno escapes after slashing Quackity’s throat. Techno marches home, covered in blood and screaming promises, retribution on the tip of his tongue like a prayer.

When he opens the front door, he doesn’t bother turning on the lights. He never does. Lights are for Phil, during the occasional visit, even though they both know Phil could still pin Techno to the floor in complete darkness without trying.

It’s something Dream will never understand—Phil and Techno, father and son, are not two sides of a coin. They are two sets of extremes on the same scale, Phil doing nothing while Techno does too much. They dance around that knowledge, a different kind of fight, one where unsaid words are weapons.

 _Are you staying warm,_ Phil will say instead of _I could kill you, too._

 _Have some tea,_ Techno will say instead of _If you wanted to kill me, I’d be dead already._

Phil takes his tea too hot and burns his tongue every time, tightens his boots too much and pushes himself too hard. He flinches at sword handles and the sound of his own name. Eating too much and sleeping too little, carrying his discomfort like a badge of honour. Remembrance, or maybe repentance. He could win any fight he wanted to.

 _If I wanted to die, better you than someone else,_ they both do not say, and the memories of Wilbur singing linger in the air like smoke.

Techno avoids the basement. Enchanted armour hums, rattling the chests and floorboards, a constant vibration against bare skin. It’s something most people get used to, but Techno has never had that luxury. Having chests full of items that sing non-stop drives him insane, so he keeps the basement closed and chests locked and villagers nearby to drown out the call.

As soon as he steps in, he can hear a change in the air. Enchanted items degrade over time, lowering in pitch and slowing in rhythm. There’s a new hum, a new set, stuttering out gasps of magic and trembling on the line.

Someone has left something enchanted in his house, and it’s about to die.

He follows the sound downstairs. His chests have been rifled through, potion bottles and weapons carefully put back but in the wrong order. Next to his feet, there’s a smear of dirt. Dust.

He sits down, next to the hidden entrance. There’s vibration in the wall, footsteps pounding at the back of his head. The broken enchantments whisper pleas into his ears. A stifled laugh he would recognize everywhere.

When Tommy decides to show his face, Techno will give him the honour of acting surprised.

#

The knife is too small in Phil’s hands, but too big in Techno’s.

They’re behind their little house, fields reaching down to the nearby river. If Techno strains his ears, he can just catch the barest traces of Tubbo and Tommy screeching in joy, cannonballing into the water. Wilbur holed himself up in the attic with a battered guitar and notebooks that morning, mumbling lines under his breath and deaf to the world. It’s just Phil and Techno under the blazing sun.

“Right at the root,” Phil explains, placing his hands over Techno’s. “Move down with your fingers, all the way down the stem. Do you feel the texture?”

“Sort of.” Grains of dirt stick to his fingers, gritty and tough.

“Rest the knife against your finger, so you can angle it into the dirt. Cut the stem underneath the surface. Don’t prick yourself.”

“Course not,” Techno says, and pricks himself immediately. “What now?”

“Spinach bruises easily. We have to pack it carefully, so it’s still usable.”

“We could be sparring right now,” Techno grumbles, but moves to the next plant. His hair spills out over his eyes, light tips touching the ground. He’s only been growing it out for a few years, but he can already feel the difference—wind reaches him quicker, letting him dodge fists or arrows or, on one memorable moment, an apple. He’s getting harder to beat.

“We could be,” Phil agrees. There’s another sharp snap, another spinach plant added to the pile behind them. “So why aren’t we?”

“Because I’m pricking myself with a kitchen knife?”

“No, not that.”

They work together, Techno passing the plants to Phil to be packed. There’s a specific texture in the stem, ropey and thin, softer the further down it gets. The softest bit of resistance before the knife slips through, leaves almost fuzzy in the light.

The more he does it, the more rhythmic it gets. Reach out to the next plant. Slip the knife. Gentle shock. Lift it out.

Repeat.

“You’re doing it to teach me patience,” he says. “And to calm down. Right? You’re teaching me control?”

“Well, yes.” Phil is quiet, hands faltering. “That too.”

It’s one of the only quiet memories Techno has of his father.

#

Techno will never admit it, but hearing of his brother’s exile takes his breath away. Not out of concern or of shock, but from the way it unfolds in his head, how he can practically hear the way Tommy would shout back.

 _The discs don’t matter,_ Tubbo had screamed. _If you have no attachment to things, then nothing matters,_ Tommy had screamed back, defiance in red victory, aching hole where his brothers should have been. He had kept his head up even while being pushed away, eyes locked onto Tubbo’s face, and the respect swelling up in Techno’s chest was as alien as a blade.

Government never suited his little brother. Never suited the world, twisted soft Tubbo into wringing his tie tighter around his neck, pushed Quackity into making a hitlist and his nephew into licking blood off of his teeth. Dream builds into the night, blocks stretching ever higher into a desolate sky.

Tommy cared too much about things, gripped onto the world with an iron fist, fought for what he believed in until the bitter end. All or nothing, never and forever—Tommy would defend what belonged to him until the day he died.

Techno had to learn how to let things go. If he couldn’t feel it, taste or hear it, it wasn’t able to exist. Physical things had to mean nothing, especially in the middle of a fight. _Improvise,_ Phil would scream at him, when he fumbled with a weapon handle or desperately combed the ground for a fallen arrow. _Focus on the people._

Tommy used things to care about the world. Techno got rid of things to care about his family.

Fitting, that neither of them have what they wanted.

Techno is okay with that. He’s okay with it until he comes home to the last brother he has, clinging onto battered armour and faded enchantments, things blown up as if they meant nothing. Tenfold to his friends, thousandfold to his enemies—he agrees to minor acts of terrorism, but inside his chest, the pit is screaming _how fucking dare you_ and _my brother_ and _I’ll tear that wall down brick by brick before I let your government take another person I care about._

Tommy gets netherite armour. Dream gets a countdown.

#

The first time Techno manages to pin Phil down, he’s in shock. He’s in disbelief. He is whooping with joy and jumping around the field, screaming at the trees in jubilant vengeance.

It’s not until he goes back that he sees it—Phil has covered his face with shaking hands, curled up on the ground.

“Oh,” Techno says dumbly. The blindfold is still tied around Phil’s face. “You’re sad.”

“I am teaching my son how to kill,” his father responds, voice cracking. “How do you think I feel?”

Techno doesn’t understand it, doesn’t try to, not until he’s standing across the remains of a broken city. People are scattered around him, brother and brother and brother. The sword will go cleanly under Wilbur’s ribcage, angling through his heart, blood splattering onto the cobblestones.

Even from where he stands, so far away from his family, Techno will smell the blood. He’ll hear the drops landing, the clink of diamond against bone, the way his father cries. Wilbur is smiling and Tommy is screaming and Techno is blinking soul sand out of unseeing eyes. _How do you feel?_

#

Tommy comes to see him in the greenhouses.

“How’s the green thumb, bitch?” He struts in, shoulders swinging and golden apple in hand, but Techno sees how deftly Tommy steps through the plants. Not a single leaf gets trodden on.

“It’s feeding you, so I suppose it’s decently well,” he answers. “And stop eating gapples. I literally gave you steak this morning.”

“No,” comes the eloquent response. It’s punctured by a particularly loud crunch.

Techno rolls his eyes, fixing Tommy with a glare that’s all emotion and no sight. Even this close up, Tommy is nothing but a swirl of colours, and even that has started to dull. Jewel tones mix into pastels, the world around him becoming more black-and-white as his life becomes greyer.

Tommy wears his bleeding heart on his sleeves, red and beating. In the greenhouse, towering above the monochrome plants, he looks vibrant. He looks tired.

“Come help me with the spinach,” Techno says.

Tommy pulls a face. “Green shit. I’m not a peasant.”

Techno shrugs and turns back to the plants. The knife is tiny in his claws, but he knows the angle and the distance he needs to push as well as he knows to calculate the trajectory of an arrow. Cut and repeat.

After a few plants, Tommy starts to fidget. After the next batch, he takes a few steps forward, shifting behind Techno’s back to peer at his hands.

“I’m just watching,” he mumbles. “Don’t get any stupid ideas.”

Techno doesn’t dignify that with an answer, but he slows down his movements. He lets Tommy see how he trails down to the bottom of the stem, the angle he drives the knife in through, how carefully he layers each plant in the basket next to him.

“You’re always okay with everything,” Tommy finally says. It’s not a question, even if he means it as one.

He’s not allowed to be anything else. “I don’t know if I’d agree with that.”

“You’re okay with Wilbur,” Tommy insists, shifting his weight.

“Ghostbur.”

“Wilbur! That’s our brother!”

Techno thinks back to ice dripping down his arms. _You treat me like me._ “I don’t think it’s Wilbur at all.”

“But he’s right there.” Tommy makes a quick gesture, too quickly for Techno to pick out individual fingers. “He’s—right in front of us, all the time. He’s always somewhere we can see him. Don’t you feel anything?”

How do you explain that, to a brother? Wilbur was never what he looked like. Techno knew Wilbur by the weight of his footsteps, the way Wilbur always walked heel-first, feet pounding into the ground. Wilbur’s voice as he braided Techno’s hair, vibrations through his palms, chest beating away in steady tempo. He knew what direction Wilbur would take before he felt the first step, knew what Wilbur would say before he heard the sharp breath.

He never knows what Ghostbur is about to say.

“Yes,” he says, and leaves it at that.

Tommy takes a deep, shuddering breath. Techno can imagine the way Tommy must look, tear tracks cutting through the grime on his cheeks, eyes squeezing shut even after all this time. The plant stems are strong and the fibre nips at his fingers, and his brother is behind him and slowly breaking.

“I have another knife,” Techno says weakly.

“Yeah,” Tommy says, voice wet. A beat. “Okay. Show me how to—how to cut this green shit.”

#

When it comes down to it, regret isn’t something Techno is familiar with. He doesn’t regret where he placed his support, doesn’t regret the long hours he spent digging claws through soil to carefully score against the potato skin. Doesn’t regret the bombs and his own destruction, taunting Theseus. He would do it all over again in a heartbeat.

“I’m sorry you were there,” he says instead, crunching the ice under his feet. It’s too loud. They’re walking in the moonlight and they aren’t quite touching, but Tommy is always a half-step behind.

Sometimes, when Tommy yells, all Techno can hear is _I’m here, see me, I’m here._ He’s not sure if it’s for Tommy or for him, and he doesn’t want to know. He’d rather leave that thought guarded behind steel and stone, the darkest corner of his mind, when Tommy slips up and looks at his older brother like Techno still matters to him.

Tommy’s voice now is too quiet in response. “I get why you did it.”

It’s not forgiveness, but it’s understanding. Techno will take what he can get.

#

There is a chest, hidden in Techno’s house.

Inside, there is still a stack of blue, a dried plant. There is also a block of cobblestone, stolen from the ugly tower outside his home. An arrow he plucked out of ever-growing grass, Tommy’s blood still on the tip. A book filled with song lyrics Ghostbur hums absently. A curled, torn picture of a little cottage in the woods, river just out of reach. Father and brother and brother and brother, under the same sun.

Techno watches the chest fill up with regrets. When it starts overflowing, he goes down into the basement Tommy had carved out for himself, covered in newly-enchanted armour. It screams out in song.

“Tommy,” he says, throat thick with words he bites back. The pit yawns inside of him. _Brother, alive, you. Only you._ “Let’s go get your discs.”

**Author's Note:**

> (holds functionally blind technoblade gently) look i just think he's neat
> 
> listen i'm never gonna write anything techno-based better than meridies with "the swing of things" but i'm damn well going to try. this fic was inspired by that one post on instagram where phil finds baby techno in a fighting pit, a conversation i had with my mother while we cut spinach for dinner on the family farm, dexter's father, and a particularly heated debate over the lack of disabled characters. 
> 
> if i mess anything up in this fic i'm so sorry in advance, please tell me if there's anything offensive or incorrect and i'll fix it. thank you for reading and happy old year!!!


End file.
